Desecration
by wildsky
Summary: Dean loses the love of his life. Will she ever be the same when he gets her back? Response to an NWP challenge. Please read and review!


**Disclaimer: I don't own 'em (unless they're originals). Please don't sue me. It's **_**so**_** not worth it.**

**A/N: **To any DA readers who are getting ready to throw fruit because I haven't updated BIS but chose to post this, I say: "I wrote this months ago. Before Red Sky aired, actually."

**DESECRATION**

**Same shit, different day… right?**

Dean Winchester paced the length of the motel room over and over again, his brow furrowed with anxiety over the fate of the city's latest victim.

"Dean, we'll find her," Sam said for the hundredth time since they'd returned to their temporary base after hours of fruitless searching. He was seated on his bed with his laptop open in front of him, the screen throwing light onto his face as he alternated between tapping away at the keypad and glancing up at his brother.

"You don't know that, Sam," Dean replied, his voice fraught with tension. "It's been too long. They could have taken her anywhere by now." He ran a restless hand through his hair, looking about ready to put his fist through the nearest wall in frustration.

"We'll have to try finding those kids again, see if they can tell us where she is," Sam decided, sighing as he rubbed at his eyes.

"Yeah, 'cause we had so much luck this morning," Dean muttered angrily, yanking open the door. He sat down on the step, staring forlornly at the empty parking space that had, until the previous night, been home to the one thing Dean cherished almost as much as his family – a black 1967 Chevy Impala.

It had all started innocently enough to Dean's way of thinking. He'd gone down to the local bar and had a few drinks while he cased the place, looking for someone to hustle. They'd been getting low on cash and they were trying to be sparing with the fake credit cards now that they had the FBI on their tails. So the group of college kids who were drinking Daddy's cash had been perfect candidates for that night's entertainment.

After a few glasses of whisky and a couple of beers, it had been easy to part them from their money. Unfortunately, they hadn't been quite as willing to let him walk away with it in a peaceable manner. One well-placed punch and they'd backed off, sulking as they watched him drive away in his most prized possession.

It appeared that hung-over college kids were not a force to be underestimated.

Short of driving around to check out all of the local motel car parks for the distinctive Chevy - which, come to think of it, they'd probably been pissed off enough to do – Dean had no idea how they could have found him. Even more puzzling was how they'd managed to extricate the vehicle without waking him or Sam. The car's rumble would have alerted him instantly had they fired it up.

Instead, the brothers had slept soundly until Sam had gotten up to get some coffee and stopped half a step out of the room, staring at the vacancy in growing consternation.

"Uh… Dean?" Sam had said loudly enough to rouse his slumbering brother.

"What?" Dean had grunted from where he had his face half-buried in the pillow.

"Dude… where's your car?"

_That_ had gotten Dean's attention. Sam was pretty sure he'd never seen him move that fast outside of a hunt. He'd practically vaulted off the bed, rushing into the mid-morning sunlight in nothing but a t-shirt and boxers. He'd stood in the empty car space, looking around frantically in growing horror as the absence of his beloved car sank in.

Sam had been forced to drag his brother back indoors or he was certain that Dean would have taken off there and then, barefoot and half-dressed, to hunt for the Impala. His brother had set a speed record for clothing himself. Not that he was unconcerned – the Impala contained pretty much everything they owned and a trunkful of weapons that would make any pseudo-military hard-ass worth his salt cry at the loss.

The weapons were Sam's primary worry. He didn't like the idea of them falling into the wrong hands.

They'd scoured a few blocks on foot. They couldn't afford to attract attention by boosting a car to speed things up. Fortunately, Sam had managed to find some humour in the situation – or rather in his brother.

Dean Winchester, bad ass of bad asses, aficionado of classic rock and seducer of gullible women everywhere, had been forced to ride a bus.

It was a memory Sam knew he would cherish for the rest of his life… that one perfect moment when, after standing for an hour and staring out of the windows hoping to catch a glimpse of his baby, Dean had been squashed like a sardine as a fresh group of people boarded at one of numerous stops and glared bloody murder at his younger brother for forcing him to use – oh, horror of horrors – public transport.

"I hate you," he'd growled under his breath and Sam had tried – _really_ tried – not to smile. Luckily Dean's attention was on the streets beyond the window or he might have noticed his younger's brother's amusement and retaliated regardless of the gross overcrowding.

In spite of their efforts in searching the city, several college campuses and asking the bartender from the night before if he knew the kids who'd lost their money to Dean, nothing had gotten them any closer to finding their car.

"Do you think those kids would go back to the bar?" Sam asked at length, finally ceding defeat and closing the laptop. He'd figured the internet was a longshot to begin with. "Dean?"

The older hunter leaned back through the doorway. "What?"

"Do you think those kids might go back to the bar tonight?" Sam repeated patiently.

"They'd better," Dean replied grimly as he got up and walked back in, his expression spelling doom for the culprits should they be caught. "If they've sold my car to a chop shop, so help me God…"

Sam winced sympathetically. They'd both been operating on the assumption that the Impala was in one piece and the idea that it might have been taken apart was awful. The car was undoubtedly a part of Dean's heart and soul but it held a special place in Sam's memory as well. They'd grown up in the back seat of the Impala. Listening to countless lectures about weapons' safety and fighting over who got the last donut until Dean relented and let his younger brother win the argument. A thousand 'yes-sir-no-sirs' had been uttered, a thousand wounds tended in the shelter of the Impala's strong steel frame. Sam didn't want to see anything happen to that car any more than Dean did.

Dean snatched up the jacket he'd tossed angrily on the bed upon their return, shoving his arms into the sleeves as he headed back out of the motel room with Sam right behind him. The Impala's keys jingled softly in the pocket and his jaw clenched at the sound. He kept picturing those smug, drunk, oh-so-dead college kids driving his baby, putting their hands all over her seats, laughing and joking at his expense as they sullied the one thing that should have been inviolate.

_Nobody_ drove his car without his permission. _Nobody_.

Well, except Sam. In emergencies. Sometimes. Maybe. But that was his little brother, who knew the dire price to be paid for damaging that most sacred of vehicles without his life on the line. Sam knew the difference between driving the Impala into a house in a last ditch bid to vanquish a spirit and taking a joyride that resulted in the rear fender dragging along the road.

And yeah, okay, Sam had that whole brother thing going for him. That kind of helped… because even though he'd never admit it out loud to Sam for fear of a chick-flick moment, if it came down to a choice between the car he adored and the freakishly-tall geek boy he'd practically raised, the kid would win out every time. Sam knew it but, to Dean's everlasting relief, he had enough respect for their code of macho silence to keep his opinions on the subject to himself.

"You don't think they'd crash her or set her on fire or anything, do you?" Dean asked after a minute or so of walking in sullen silence.

"Not if they found what's in the trunk," Sam replied with a reasonable amount of certainty. "They'd probably think you were an axe murderer or something. Trashing a serial killer's car isn't worth dying over."

"They're drunk fraternity idiots, Sam," Dean bit out, his voice coloured with menace.

"Point taken."

"I can't believe those sons of bitches actually stole my car," Dean continued, fists clenching at his sides. "How the hell did they even get it out of the parking lot without either of us waking up?"

"I don't know, Dean," Sam replied patiently, knowing his brother wasn't finished by a long shot. His older brother could be reasonable about the Impala when there were bigger fish to fry but at times like this, when they were between jobs, the car rated at the top of his list of priorities.

If they didn't find the Impala soon, Sam suspected that those kids would wish they'd never been born.

**Five hours, one bar and a fist-fight later…**

"Oh my God," Dean choked out.

"Dean, take it easy," Sam cautioned him as Dean sprinted towards his car.

"They…. they…." Dean spluttered to a halt, staring at the Impala in outraged horror. "They've _desecrated_ her!"

"Dean –"

"Look what they did to her!" Dean's voice rose an octave as he began to circle the Impala, his expression of angry dismay almost tragic in its intensity.

"At least it's in one piece," Sam felt obligated to point out as Dean reached out to touch one of the mirrors only to have it fall off and clatter onto the bitumen of an abandoned back road.

"You call this one piece?!" Dean shot back, incredulous. Sam half-grimaced, recognizing a losing battle when he saw one. Even he had to admit that it looked pretty bad.

The Impala was no longer glossy black, a goddess who ate up the miles of road, her voice a throaty rumble that had been their lullaby for years. In her place stood what looked like some kind of twisted ice cream sundae.

Toilet paper coated the entire frame, glued into place with only God knew how many eggs that had been thrown with questionable accuracy. Left to bake in the Arizona sun, the sticky mess had hardened into a shell that Sam could tell was going to destroy the paintwork beneath. The windscreen and all the windows had been smashed in, leaving shattered glass all over the interior. The tyres had been slashed, leaving the rubber to all but melt into the asphalt in the heat and it looked like a can of red paint had been thrown over the roof to top it all off.

But worst of all was the smell.

Dean peered inside and his eyes widened as he got a close-up whiff of the stench. "Jesus…" he whimpered, sounding heartbroken as he backed away, making faces as he tried to clear his nostrils of the odour. He actually looked like he wanted to cry. "Sammy…"

"What is it?" Sam asked, moving forward reluctantly to get a look at what had reduced Dean to the point where he'd actually _whimpered_. Dean Winchester didn't whimper. Ever.

Sam looked inside and was immediately reminded of high school biology lessons. He'd seen something vaguely similar after the teacher had disposed of all the dissected animals. He had no idea how or where they'd been acquired but the entire back seat and floor was covered in the bodies of dead frogs. Frog bodies, frog intestines, frog blood… Sam's stomach churned in rebellion and he heeded the warning, backing away to drag in a much-needed breath of fresh air.

"Wow…" was all he could utter, clearing his throat as Dean pinned him with a glare that should have withered him on the spot.

"Wow?" Dean echoed in disbelief, his voice taking on a dangerous edge. "Those fuckers defile my car and you say 'wow'?"

"Not good wow, Dean," Sam informed him in a placating tone. "Bad wow. As in 'wow, they really did a number on her'. Will it even start?"

Dean's expression instantly clouded with apprehension and he rushed to the driver's side, yanking on the door handle only to discover that the egg and toilet paper mixture had all but welded the door shut. Even with Sam lending his strength, it refused to budge. Swearing under his breath, Dean pulled his pocket knife out of his jacket pocket and flicked it open, carefully cutting his way through the crust where he knew the seam between the door and the frame lurked underneath. Even the scent of dead amphibians couldn't deter him from his task.

"Those little bastards are gonna pay for this," Dean muttered in frustration as the blade scraped against metal and he corrected the knife's course. Several minutes later, apparently satisfied that the shell was sufficiently weakened to allow him access, Dean straightened and grabbed the door handle again. He braced his leg against the rear and pulled with all his might. Finally, with a metallic screech of protest, the coating gave up the fight and the door flew open, sending Dean sprawling onto the ground.

Sam stifled a laugh but Dean saw his lips twitch and glowered from where he was laid out on the ground.

"Something funny, Francis?" he asked, the warning as subtle as the damage to the Impala. Sam held out a hand and pulled his brother up onto his feet.

"Not a thing," Sam deadpanned, looking Dean squarely in the eyes. The older hunter gave him a disgruntled look and turned his attention back to the car, easing himself into the seat to avoid getting cut by the broken glass. He slipped the key into the ignition and twisted it.

The engine turned over for a moment, sputtered and died.

Dean frowned and glanced at the dashboard, grumbling as he reached out to clear the silly string out of the way so he could see the meters. He groaned and slammed his hand against the steering wheel. "Great… that's just fucking great!"

"What's wrong now?" Sam asked, dreading the answer.

"She's out of gas," he called out to Sam, who cast his eyes skyward and gritted his teeth.

"Probably just drove her until the tank was dry and walked away," Sam mused, shoving his hands into his pockets. "We'll have to get her towed."

"Ya think?" Dean snarked in response. Sam pulled his cell phone out and dialled directory assistance, watching his brother swear loudly and colorfully as he reached into the back seat and started tossing frog pieces onto the ground outside.

**Patience is a virtue…**

"Son of a bitch!"

Dean stalked out of the evening gloom and into the motel room, slamming the door behind him and leaving greasy finger-marks on the paint. Sam looked up from his laptop and blinked at his brother but refrained from offering any comments.

For the last forty-eight hours, Dean had done nothing but work on the Impala, which had been in even worse shape than they'd first realized. They'd discovered several nasty surprises over the last couple of days and Dean's temper was fraying. Sam had figured it would be easier to leave Dean alone and let him pour all his energy into the Impala. He was just thankful that the kids hadn't popped the trunk.

It had taken Dean the better part of an entire day to remove the disgusting egg-and-toilet-paper shell that coated his beloved vehicle and clean the animal parts from the interior. Sam hadn't dared go within twenty feet of the car for fear of never being able to reproduce. With all the fumes from the industrial strength cleanser Dean had been forced to use to try to rid the Impala of the pungent dead-frog smell, Sam wasn't expecting to become an uncle any time in the future.

"What'd you find now?" Sam asked, half-dreading the answer.

"They put beer in the gas and oil tanks!" Dean practically screeched. "I had to take the whole damn thing apart to clean it out – the fuel pump, the injectors –"

"Did you fix it?" Sam asked with a long-suffering sigh.

"I'm getting there!" Dean huffed angrily, snatching up his duffel and stalking into the bathroom, closing the door with more force than was strictly necessary. Sam just shook his head and sighed, wordlessly returning to researching their next hunt.

Dean stripped off his filthy shirt and tossed it onto the floor, turning the taps so that the water could hit the right temperature while he removed his jeans. He couldn't believe the mess those goddamn kids had made of his car. He would have to get her completely re-painted and he was convinced there were still some frog guts inside somewhere that he'd missed. Sam seemed to think it was all in his head but Dean would not be moved. New tires, new windows… it was all going to cost money they couldn't afford, fraudulent or not.

He stepped under the spray and bowed his head, letting the water run through his hair and over his face. A hand pressed against the tiles and left a grimy black mark against the ancient porcelain which he impatiently swiped away with a handful of water.

Over the past few days, his initial burst of rage had settled down to a slow simmer that spelled trouble. He knew where those kids lived now… and damn but they were in for a surprise. Dean Winchester was fully in touch with his inner teenager and the adolescent in question was in the mood for revenge. Of course, he couldn't tell Sam. His younger brother would try to stop him with phrases like 'immature' and 'sinking to their level'. However, he was quite enjoying using his imagination for something other than a hunt or undressing a girl with his eyes. He'd finish fixing the Impala so they could make a quick getaway and then he'd strike.

After all, revenge was a dish best served cold.

**The thrill of victory…**

Dean caught sight of the gleaming Maserati and smiled to himself. Those rich kids had really been slumming it when they'd picked that bar to lose their money in. Dressed in the darkest clothes he owned and with a backpack full of supplies slung across his shoulders, he moved stealthily across the grounds towards the car.

He bypassed the alarm easily enough. Boosting cars was a skill he'd learned early on and it was only fair that after what they'd done to the Impala, the perpetrators' cars shouldn't move for a long, long, _long_ time.

Crime and punishment, baby. Or maybe it was just karma.

The Maserati was a thing of beauty. Dean had to concede that much. It seemed a shame to destroy it.

Almost.

He popped the hood and pulled out his flashlight and wire-cutters. The alternator was easy enough to find and he swiftly severed the red and blue wires sticking out from the bottom where they wouldn't be seen before he moved on to slitting the wires that came off the spark plugs.

Dean worked quickly and efficiently, sabotaging one system after another. Oil in the gas tank, nuts and bolts in the gearbox and anything else he could find that moved. Disconnecting the radiator, sand in the oil, tightening the drive belt… and finally, toilet paper, water and paint thinner. He put rubber gloves on for that one.

Perhaps it was beneath him but his car was sacrosanct and by the look of things, this guy could afford to buy three or four more vehicles, which Dean definitely couldn't. By the time he was done, he was satisfied that the Maserati was parked permanently. He vanished into the night without leaving a trace behind, wishing he could see the look on the frat brat's face when he saw what had happened as he slept.

**Facing the music…**

Sam and Dean were out of Tucson the next morning, the Impala rumbling happily as the highway opened up before her. Dean sat behind the wheel, smirking softly in satisfaction.

Sam glanced at his brother and asked the inevitable question.

"So how much damage did you do?"

Dean blinked. "What are you talkin' about?" he replied, figuring if he played it cool that Sam would let it drop.

No such luck.

"The guy's car," Sam continued. "The one who had the bright idea to trash the Impala. How much damage did you do?"

"Come on, man, what makes you think I did anything?" Dean asked, the picture of innocence. "Is it so hard to believe that your big brother took the moral high ground?"

Sam's slow smile mocked him. "Dean."

"I was defending my baby's honour," Dean said archly, shrugging a little as he stroked the steering wheel.

"_Dean_."

He looked over at his brother and broke into a wicked grin but to his surprise, Sam just chuckled.

"Who ever said chivalry is dead?"


End file.
